


that hopeful feeling when eden was lost

by bansheesquad (deathwailart)



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Competence Kink, Established Relationship, Mission Fic, Multi, Sharing Clothes, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26127868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/bansheesquad
Summary: Finally returning from their travels, Altaïr and Maria have one last stop on the way to Masyaf.Or: it should be a simple thing to reunite but of course there's a rescue mission and this time Maria isn't the one going undercover in a disguise.
Relationships: Malik Al-Sayf/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad/Maria Thorpe
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	that hopeful feeling when eden was lost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [noun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noun/gifts).



"Would you not be more comfortable in robes Maria?"  
  
Malik asks the question – not for the first time, not for the last Maria is sure – as he scrutinises a map in the welcome cool of the bureau's main room; he hasn't glanced her direction, busy finishing his work for a client who'll pay well for his skills but he needn't cast his eyes her direction, not when she's huffing louder than a stable of high-strung horses, having spent the time since her arrival through the rooftop hatch escaping the sunlight streaming through the entrance, chasing the darkest shadows as Altaïr reclines on the floor, some cushions set beneath him for comfort, back against the shelves of pottery that separate one room from the next in place of a wall, long legs in her way when she has to move again. He's making more notes in his journal now he's got the chance, a steady scratch of quill on parchment to match Malik.  
  
"Smother myself head to ankle?" She scoffs and of course that's when her hair, already escaping her braid from this morning plasters itself to her forehead and the nape of her neck, forcing her to smooth it and the sweat away with the end of her sleeve. God, not even noon yet and she's already in a lather. At least she's the small mercy that she's no longer hiding herself the way she did previously amidst an entire army; Altaïr has made the concession of removing the whole of his hood and Malik's removed his black coat since it's just the three of them. "I hardly think so."  
  
"Why not try back in Masyaf. You'd be surprised and," Altaïr stretches, arching up and away, the pop of his shoulders loud in the quiet of the bureau – Jerusalem's rich district never falls silent, not in truth, but at this time of day with the way all bureaus in the Holy Land seem to be built everything is muffled, only one persistent crier going hoarse reaching them – before he settles again, a smug edge to his smile, "they don't half rot in the drying."  
  
"That was once and it was your damned fault." Maria mutters because it was, because everything to do with Cyprus she'll blame on him, not that she holds it against him the same way these days. Movement out the corner of her eye catches her attention and she turns from facing Altaïr on her heel to catch Malik, fist clenched, tools set down to not ruin his work.   
  
Laughing, the bastard.  
  
"We don't need both of you fit to drown, when you wear those—"  
  
"Gambeson. It's called a gambeson," Maria supplies, somewhat irritated because Malik knows, of course he knows.  
  
"Lumbering things," he continues as if she hasn't corrected him, gesturing at her as he straightens up, "then you sink. I suppose I don't have to be the one to tell you that out of the three of us in this room right now, the one-armed man being the best swimmer is a shame to both of you and to the Brotherhood?"  
  
Altaïr makes a noise as if he might protest until Maria and Malik turn twin looks on him, forcing him to duck his head instead with a mumble so soft she doesn't catch it. He's improved some, he's had to since they've been together ever since Cyprus and beyond, but if swimming lessons become part of lessons for the Assassins - and they should, Maria's of the opinion that given the number of ports, the number of ships, the options there might have been against Sibrand if a man or woman might slip silently through the water in Acre – then she'll take that role. There aren't many parts of her childhood she recalls fondly but the River Soar and the chill shock of it, kicking her legs and it stealing her breath when she went there with the other children, splashing about and then learning in earnest are among them.   
  
"I can swim in a gambeson better than he can in robes."  
  
"That's not saying much," Malik replies with a snort before picking up his brush and ink. "So, Altaïr, did you come here just to sweat in my bureau or do you have another reason after all your long travels and studies?"  
  
"Have my messages—" Altaïr begins, setting down his journal with a look of such concern that Malik sighs heavily.  
  
"Yes, yes I received them but writing back to you two when you were here, there, everywhere? Impossible. But I have a replacement ready if you've the time to wait. If not I can come after."  
  
"You're returning to Masyaf then?" Maria asks, pleasantly surprised. It's a discussion long in the making, their time together as a trio precious and rare, plans for the Brotherhood set in motion from when Altaïr spared her life and killed his mentor that he's still putting into place now.  
  
"I am," Malik confirms, giving her a rare smile as he looks to Altaïr. "Don't look so pleased with yourself novice, I saw your folly once when you thought yourself above it all, now we've no other master but you. Someone has to keep you in check and it can't fall to one of us alone or we'd need another mentor."  
  
"Such cruelty," Altaïr says, rising to his feet in a fluid motion as if he's not been sat for hours now, Maria envious of it while she learns that side of their ways, watching him prowl over to the counter to lean until he's batted away.  
  
"Don't smudge my work or you'll be waiting all the longer."  
  
"Malik—"   
  
"Altaïr," Maria crosses the room, reaching out to catch his upper arm, tugging him backwards so he stumbles into her because she can, because they're evenly matched, him with only a few inches on her in height but leanly muscled, not built for armour and soldiering the way the Crusades required of her. "Leave the man to his work or you'll be sleeping elsewhere. I've no qualms about locking you out of your own quarters when we're back and leaving the rumour mill to it."  
  
It's not the most effective way to shut him up but worth it for Altaïr's silence, scandalised – unlikely – or working through her implication of what he'd not be invited to if it were her and Malik alone, rare as those occasions may be. Altaïr doesn't make any effort to move away, he even leans his weight against her more heavily without realising it for half a moment, the knees going, the sag of his shoulders before he straightens, remembering himself and where they are, what they're supposed to be doing. Malik's watching him with interest, putting her in mind of a sparrowhawk before a strike as Altaïr takes a step away to retrieve his journal, setting it on the counter by Malik's map.  
  
"There's a scholar," he begins and just like that the teasing disappears: there's work to be done now, lives to be spared and taken in equal measure.  
  


* * *

  
  
Richard had departed the Holy Land before Maria returned to it with Altaïr but Templars have their work to do and exist throughout the world as well as those Crusaders who didn't return to their homes or respect the Treaty of Jaffa. For some the war won't end and for others they've no other skill but blood and death, coin to be turned over in their hand. It's a bloody business. Altaïr and Maria have travelled since Cyprus, kept in touch as best they could, studying, learning, training, readying themselves for what lies ahead. They've been back since but not to stay, not like they intend now. It seems oddly fitting that there's a target involved.  
  
 _"A scholar, not one of great renown outsider certain circles," Altaïr had recounted in the bureau, more for Malik's benefit than Maria's who'd heard most of it on their journey back to Jerusalem since he'd not trusted it to couriers or informants who might be compromised in some way in getting the message such a long way. "But you were there, after Al Mualim."  
  
"I was," Malik had replied after a hesitation, equal parts bitterness and sorrow that Maria knew all too well for how she spoke about Robert when the subject arose. "And you believe that the Templars…"  
  
"If they weren't able to get this Piece of Eden then getting to this man would be the next best step for them."  
  
"I never knew Garnier de Naplouse personally, only by reputation," Maria had added with the smallest of shudders – there had been tales told of him around any camp, hushed of course for the man's rank but even with him dead and gone memories persisted that still couldn't hold a candle to the truth of his deeds. "But they could pervert what he's learning for their own use."  
  
"Then we strike, tell me your plans."_  
  
Which is what leads them to where they are now, or where Maria is since she can't join Altaïr or Malik, and someone has to keep watch on the movements of the guards and anyone else of interest coming and going, so up on a rooftop – and how quickly she does it now, no hesitation, muscles singing even in her armour – with clear sight for miles around. No longer does her stomach lurch at this height the way it used to, instead she steadies herself, takes a breath, and looks for the old men in white passing through the streets below, for the guards with longbows patrolling the same rooftops she's on and—she spots Altaïr and Malik below, Malik changed to match Altaïr for the first time in the years she's known him.   
  
(It shouldn't be jarring to see him out of his Rafiq garb, she's seen him naked after all but the two of them side by side as they are and perhaps in Masyaf Malik won't be in his coat so often.)  
  
The streets leading to the mosque are crowded but they weave their way through stallholders, merchants, the ever-present thugs barking threats at anyone who dares venture too close to them and the guards as they make their way towards a group of men clad in white making close to the columns where the guards are thicker than Maria would expect for any holy building with conflict at an end. The transformation when they reach them is something else as Maria watches them move, slow shuffling steps, bent as beggars or pious old men, utterly absent the surety she knows they possess as sweat gathers beneath her gambeson; the unrelenting heat continues to do her few favours. It doesn't take them long to join the group, to slip in and, to the untrained eye, disappear entirely. (She heard about Sibrand's rantings from both sides, his paranoia wasn't entirely unwarranted.)  
  
And then they're gone. Maria's alone on her rooftop but that's her part of the plan for the moment. To be up here, watching for movement though if someone does get too close there's not a great deal she can do about it other than to cause a scene, deal with it, or lead them off. (Or all three, but that's a last resort.) She can't slip inside, she's not dressed for it, and she's not about to barge in and draw more attention to a man who didn't know until today that other men would see him dead sooner than his knowledge fall into the wrong hands. The call for prayer sounds from the minaret before both Assassins emerge, again with a group of scholars, taking a different route to the bureau and Maria continues on the rooftops to join them, dodging guards as often as she has to whenever they turn rather than cause a panic by killing anyone before they start. It takes longer and it's only Altaïr waiting when she finally drops down and in, stretching aching muscles and unfastening the gambeson as he pulls her close, Maria rising up just enough to kiss him, a hand catching the front of his robes in her fists to steady herself.   
  
"Are you alright?" He asks, hands skimming down her shoulders, her sides, landing on her hips and she nods.  
  
"You? Malik?"  
  
"Both fine. He's gone to get the map sold now and speak to his replacement should we have to leave in a hurry."  
  
"Does that seem more likely now?"  
  
"There's…a problem."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"There's an armoured guard on patrol at all times inside, he's going to be a problem for us – we can't slip in as scholars and safely get him out, not without causing a commotion where too many innocents could get hurt."  
  
Maria nods and follows him through to where they both strip out of their robes, armour and weapons, everything in a heap on the floor where they're safe, cushions set down so Maria can finally lie down and stretch her arms high above her head, her back beginning to throb – she'll have robes when she's in Masyaf proper, when they're settled and staying, her armour isn't meant for what she's spent the day doing – in counterpoint to her temples, exhaustion threatening to catch up to her. Altaïr sits, cross-legged, arms behind him to keep his balance as he blows out a long slow sigh, all the breath in his lungs at once that has her opening eyes she doesn't remember closing to look up at him.  
  
"Do you remember Kyrenia?" She asks, propping herself up on her elbows and well, doesn't that have him jerking his head her direction fast enough her neck aches in sympathy.  
  
"You know that I do." His voice is lower, a smile finally lifting the corner of his mouth before she tips her head back and closes her eyes, stretching again. "You have an idea?"  
  
"Wait for Malik to come back."  
  
"You're terrible."  
  
"We have to keep you humble, don't we?"  
  
It doesn't stop her leaning up and pushing him down into the cushions, his hips between her knees which is how Malik finds and joins them because she really hasn't seen him in just his robes enough, tugged down by his pinned left sleeve after token protests, her and Altaïr taking turns stripping him down same as them in the interests of fairness so he ends up in the middle; a long day means no one has energy for much, but she's missed this, missed the closeness, stretched out with them as her heart hammers in her chest.  
  
"Ambushing me in my own bureau." Malik shakes his head but stripped to his underwear with his lips swollen from where one of them (maybe both, Maria hasn't kept track) nipped at them he can't quite pull off the lecturing tone he's building to and Altaïr leans over to kiss him again, stopping him in his tracks.  
  
"Maria has an idea."  
  
"Is this how things will be now?" Malik looks to Maria who lifts a shoulder in the laziest shrug she can muster.  
  
"Are you complaining?"  
  
"Only wondering what I'm getting myself into."  
  


* * *

  
  
"Will you stop complaining." It isn't a question when it leaves her mouth, catching Altaïr by the leg early in the morning after another long day that blurred into a long night with little sleep for any of them though part of that was by their own choice, flushed with triumph and having cut themselves short after the initial trip to the mosque.  
  
The years are falling away from her as it is despite where they are, the years before the Crusades, her still in Leicester with a marriage she never wanted in the first place, châtelaine to man she never chose (now she can see that the skills have done her good but not how she came by them, not the resentment that wells up when she thinks of England and family and how _home_ never accompanies those thoughts, hasn't for years) followed by the practicalities of army life. Chainmail isn't something to be heaved on alone, not an ideal world at any rate, not if you've squires, servants, all your fellow soldiers teeming about barracks and camps who'll lend a hand if you do likewise. Everyone complains, of course, though Maria kept hers to herself best she could for obvious reasons but she knew the irritations then and knows them today. Any hurt magnified tenfold beneath the added weight. The tender shoulder you wrenched during sparring that requires twice the effort to lift when swinging your sword. That graze on the side from skidding along the dirt rubbed red raw chafing worse as the day goes on. The exhaustion at the end of the day from a long march beneath the weight of it all or sat in the saddle keeping a recalcitrant horse in check as you try to keep yourself awake too.   
  
Altaïr says nothing, submitting to Maria's work in as dignified a silence as he can muster. Malik on the other hand, lounging comfortably on the cushions that made up their bed last night, rises to pick through the assembled goods from their raid on a guard barracks, a bemused frown on his face as he lifts one item for closer inspection now they've time for it, turning it over before clearing his throat. "What's this Maria?"  
  
"Mittens," she supplies after a glance his way, pausing in her work to roll her shoulders and crack her neck to either side to ease the ache. It's not been so long since she helped Robert into his armour but Altaïr is more difficult than he ever was. "They protect the hand, good for any soldiers using the lance or spear."  
  
Malik's pulled it on during the explanation, flexing his fingers, making a fist, and finally removing it with a grimace. Altaïr takes an aborted step in his direction as if he's somehow forgotten that Maria's trying to help him get dressed and she hauls him back sharply by the thigh.   
  
"Will you let me—" She snaps, wishing he weren't wearing something that rendered pinching him a useless endeavour.  
  
"I wanted to—" He says at the same time, hand outstretched and the other going to her shoulder to steady himself when his balance goes.  
  
"Do you want to look the part or give yourself away?" Maria waits him out, rocking back off her knees to put her weight on her heels for a moment. "Well?"  
  
"Hard to say. I feel ridiculous Maria."  
  
"You look it." Malik doesn't need to agree quite so readily in Maria's opinion, her and Altaïr turning as one to look at him where he's returned to his comfortable sprawl, djellaba still creased and rumpled from last night, his hair tousled because he doesn't need to get ready yet so why bother when he has a show to entertain him, when undressing Altaïr was a far better use of his time. Helping to dress him on the other hand…  
  
 _I am a one-armed man, Maria_ , he'd said at the start, begging off immediately. _How can I help with the soldiering façade when you are the expert?_  
  
Maria doesn't want to agree with them on the state of Altaïr currently, trying her best to keep going. "Well you're not—" And she stops herself before she can finish _that_ thought, the laugh catching in her throat fast enough she has to rest her head against Altaïr's knee because if she starts now she won't stop, instead busying herself adjusting the chausses, silently cursing his long legs for making the process as awkward as possible as she breathes through it, Altaïr refusing to co-operate or move with her.  
  
Altaïr's watching her, Malik too, she knows the weight of their gazes all too well by now and no amount of avoiding either of them will do her any good. "What is it? Tell us."  
  
"I was going to say," she begins with a final tug of the chausses to have them sitting right, satisfied at last, "that neither of you have ever a soldier half-dressed like this but that'd be a lie, wouldn't it?"  
  
It breaks some of the ugly tension that's been gathering, the exhaustion of too little sleep and too much to do since the mad dash to find armour to fit Altaïr, adjusting their plan to have him take the place of the man guarding their scholar, Malik still able to slip in as scholar to act as a buffer and Maria will borrow Altaïr's robes – a close enough fit for the brief time she'll be in them – to be on the rooftops to draw attention as needed. It's not the most elegant of plans but unlike their informants who know what to do should the situation call for it, any risk to the scholar is something they can't allow so even causing a ruckus is acceptable if they have to. Enough guards remember Altaïr's past deeds in taking the lives of Templars of note in Jerusalem and with the absence of the Crusaders the stories have grown, twisted around themselves, so the sight of an Assassin on the rooftops could go either way when it comes down to it.   
  
Maria's ready for the challenge. They came back to settle here and live this life in truth at last, she's wanted to do this for longer than she realised, it's just a shame that they've had to rush it but such is life.  
  
Malik gives her a hand with the chainmail when it comes to it and suddenly he's willing to help her into Altaïr's robes as if she's not intimately familiar with those herself (and his, after all, what he wears isn't too dissimilar) though from this side it's odd. The layering of the fabric all at once lighter and heavier than she expected. Buckles and straps and bracers, the trousers tucked into her boots best they can since he's a little taller, some of it sitting differently with her broader hips and chest and shoulders but she moves, stretches, almost walks into Malik as he tidies up at the limited field of vision with the hood up. Which is ridiculous, she's worn helms. She's worn _Robert's_ helm but if this is going to be part of her life she'll have to get used to straining her eyes or tipping her head or turning it without wheeling wildly one direction or the other.  
  
Malik grins and leans close, voice still muffled through the fabric. "At least you're not him."  
  
And she turns to the other side of the room and Altaïr comporting himself in a way that wouldn't befit a novice of the Brotherhood or squire in any army, biting her lip before a single sound can escape her.  
  
"All this just to get close to our target," Altaïr grouses, clomping about heavily. Malik's laughing, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes and she has to push the hood back, her face too hot suddenly, cheeks flushed.   
  
This is serious. This is life and death for someone and they'll never know the reality of it.  
  
"Perhaps…" she sighs, inhaling slowly through her nose. Concentrates on that. All the effort just to get the damned that'd fit Altaïr and it might go to waste if he can't walk in it properly. As it is she's hard-pressed to keep any comments to herself though comparisons to a newborn foal are something beyond charitable at this stage.  
  
Altaïr's not as prideful a man as he once was, especially when Malik is telling tales, but of the three of them, if and when a disguise is called for then it falls to Maria most; Altaïr mentor of the Brotherhood, Master of Masyaf is who he is, and Malik points out that there are too many occasions where a one-armed man is going to give away the ruse. And Maria certainly hid herself in a certain sort of plain sight far longer than them and pulled another disguise in her time alone with Altaïr. Altaïr's not used to this. She tells herself that. And yes she almost walked into Malik but him clattering around the way he is isn't how she thought her day would go before they had to leave.  
  
"Are you trying to test my patience or does that just come naturally to you?" Malik asks when he gets control of himself before Maria can say anything, undressing as he goes, usually the last of them but the quickest. "I thought I had Altaïr here with me, not Abbas."  
  
"Don't say his name here amongst us."  
  
"Then don't give me reason to."  
  
The moment stretches until Altaïr nods, drawing a blade to go into the next room, sunlight spilling through the roof hatch to run some drills, testing his reach, his footing, muttering and correcting himself where Maria can see him through the shelves. She snorts through her nose and catches Malik by the chin when he moves to pass her, a kiss of thanks between them and it's a thought, the three of them dressed as they are, Altaïr in a poor imitation of her garb—  
  
Maybe later. Masyaf isn't so far away after all this.  
  


* * *

  
  
The hood muffles the world in a different way to the helm she wore previously. Inside her helm it turned damp from her breath, the sweat would run into her eyes, and her breathing was as loud as her heart thundering in her ears. The hood is new and makes her more aware of light and shadow than before; of how heavy her footsteps are when she picks her way along the rooftops as she did previously. Altaïr doesn't move like a soldier and she longs to correct his form but he'll pass well enough for what they have to do since there isn't any other option. Malik will be there. And Altaïr's long practiced at this sort of thing if not this side of the deception.   
  
A guard barks out at her from an opposing rooftop and she reaches for the throwing knives, takes a deep breath and checks her aim as she throws true. He's high enough up and isolated that no one will find him until the guard rotation changes and that's hours away.   
  
Time enough for them to be in and out.   
  
Time enough for everything to go to hell and back but they don't have time to plan for everything, they've only themselves here and now to get one scholar out of here before he falls into Templar clutches so they can use all he knows for evil ends. Maria's heard more about the work of Garnier to fill in the gaps in her knowledge to give her nightmares for a month and more.   
  
A glance below to the street, down to the crowds and she catches Malik weaving his way through the throngs by the market stalls, sidestepping a woman carrying a woven basket of goods as he glances up to Maria looking like a man in search of an answer instead of her slight nod as they keep pace with one another. She takes a breath, running ahead when she has to clear the roof, the fabric of the robes whipping at her legs when she rolls, lighter than her chainmail and absorbing less of the impact but allowing her to move more freely until it tugs around her arms when she hauls herself up and over. The minaret looms closer and closer, scholars gathering for Malik to slip in amongst once again and by the time she reaches the point they discussed that allows her to see the entrance he's long gone but she does catch sight of Altaïr doing his best to blend in.  
  
She should have insisted on the mittens. His hands look so bare without and true, not everyone wears them and he'd not be able to use the hidden blade with one, but still, she wonders how long the ruse will last, that familiar lurch in her stomach from whenever _she's_ been in his position. Is this what Altaïr feels every time it's been her? She's never asked, never thought to but now she has an inkling of what it might be like for him especially when sometimes she can only smuggle a dagger or a throwing knife on her person without risking discovery.  
  
Time passes, Altaïr disappearing out of sight. They planned for this, all of them, but it doesn't reassure her much when she hasn't any notion of how things are going until the outcome: a commotion if something goes wrong or leaving in relative silence with no alarm bells if they're fortunate enough for that. Maria moves, not wanting to linger too long in case the guards on patrol question her presence, the sun glinting off the pale stone of the mosque beginning to blind her in her current position anyway, hoping to move close enough to hear something. Anything. A quiet roar from below reaches her instead, debates from learned men, guards complaining and laughing as they lean against the columns, people coming and going to pray or sit on benches in the shade to escape the heat of the day. She takes a breath, swallows, and resigns herself to waiting when two of the guards split from the group of four and head inside out of her sight, not running but with the brisk stride of a barked order perhaps, something calling their attention. The remaining pair don't seem concerned from what she can see from this height, arms crossed, bored, tired, but there's always having to put on a face in front of the people to spare them alarm.  
  
(Violence isn't so far behind them. It doesn't take much for panic to flare into something ugly.)  
  
Altaïr appears with the pair and her heart is in her mouth, all of them so deep in conversation that she herself is invested in that she almost misses Malik and the scholar slipping out a side entrance, taking another path away from them both. Malik looks up, gives another nod and walks about as fast as he dares, Altaïr heading back inside again.  
  
Not long after he's gone an alarm bell rings and Maria is racing across the rooftops, arrows flying, guards cursing whatever lineage they think an Assassin possesses until she can make it back to the bureau, exhausted, bruised, but unhurt, mercifully.  
  
Both of them are waiting for her and she almost loses her balance when they catch her off-guard before the hood is down, checking for injuries, the three of them talking over one another and Altaïr's only stripped off his chainmail, not the gambeson or chausses, a hand on her cheek and the other around Malik's waist as if he can't stand any distance between them.  
  
"I'm alright, I'm alright," she manages when she can get a word in, not sure why she's laughing until she can tug them both closer to rest her head against one of them or both, both would be good, heart hammering against her ribs. "I'm alive."  
  


* * *

  
  
They pack up and slip out of Jerusalem the next morning. The new Rafiq inherits the stolen armour, just in case.  
  


* * *

  
  
Night falls, unspeakably cold in the hills they pick their way along to return to Masyaf with a scholar now safe – if mildly traumatised but there are things that can't be helped, much as they might wish otherwise – and on his way to Damascus, a new life and safety with informants. Jerusalem to Masyaf is far too long to ride all at once so they make camp with the hills to their back, using them for shelter; too high for anyone to scale and ambush them where they've settled too, the horses tethered close and away from the small settlements that've only grown since Richard's men departed. Every breath they take fogs the air but they don't risk lighting fires lest it draw unfriendly eyes or unwarranted attention, sharing their bedrolls instead, taking turns on watch. Altaïr has first watch, perched by the edge of the ridge with a hand on the hilt of his blade, throwing knives counted well enough that he might find them by touch. Maria knows that he can. She saw it posing as Robert. In Cyprus. Many times since. She's learning their ways too, piece by piece.  
  
Tonight she's smug, in the heat of her oft-stifling gambeson. Malik huffs to her left, teeth chattering, rolling over to face her.  
  
"Would you not be more comfortable—" Maria starts, Altaïr's shoulders jerking in a stifled laugh – her voice is pitched just loud enough for him to hear, they're barely a few feet from each other – even as she lifts an arm to Malik.  
  
"Insufferable. I thought one of you," Malik jerks his chin needlessly in Altaïr's direction, "was enough for one life. Clearly I was mistaken and I am being punished for my misdeeds."  
  
"Oh what a terrible punishment we are," she teases as he makes himself comfortable against her, his nose frozen against her skin.   
  
"I don't know who I offended." A yawn softens whatever sharpness he tries to add to his tone, Maria slipping an arm under his head because it's only a few hours until she's up, she won't begrudge him the numbness that follows. His breathing slows, eyes closed as best Maria can judge in the pitch darkness, only Altaïr making noise now as he moves enough to fight the cold and the stiffness it'll bring if he's sat out in it without a fire but Malik surprises her, words only for her to hear. "It went well, the mission, your plan. I didn't have doubts—"  
  
"I know." Maria means it. They've not worked together as many times as any of them would have liked but that doesn't guarantee success; she's known other soldiers in the past she could count among her rare friends but they worked horribly together, oil and water and a torch thrown atop it when they tried despite their individual skills. For a plan thrown together at the last minute, all of it turned out better than expected.  
  
"Altaïr wasn't exaggerating in even the earliest letters of his travels out of Acre and to Cyprus."  
  
Maria snorts, reaching just enough with fingers beginning to tingle to flick Malik's ear. "Don't remind me about that and the whole sordid mess, besides, I did all of it with far more grace than he did back there."  
  
"He might come around. In privacy. We'll have plenty of that."  
  
"You have ideas, Master Al-Sayf?"  
  
Malik says nothing but he turns, lips finding her throat, and God, they really can't get to Masyaf soon enough. It's a shame, hours later, to trade places with Altaïr and shift Malik's head from her arm and work the feeling back into it, the shock of the world outside the blankets and a warm body stealing her breath as she takes up the lookout spot with her sword across her knee, whetstone out to keep herself awake for the long hours to trade again with Malik before dawn. Not long, not long until they're home where they should be.  
  


* * *

  
  
Masyaf is a thing glimpsed in Altaïr's sketches, the stories he and Malik share of their childhoods and beyond that shaped every inch of them; born and bred and raised within those safe strong walls that've withstood sieges in the past and doubtless will again. Maria's only paid fleeting visits, never long enough to stay more than a night or two and when she staggers off her horse outside the gates she cranes her neck to gawk; Rauf is polite enough not to laugh at her when he greets them, clapping Altaïr and Malik on the back hard, warm welcomes for the absent Master finally returned to them.  
  
He teases more gently than Malik, wonders if Altaïr still remembers how to wield a blade.  
  
Altaïr's loved here, she realises not for the first time as the people part to let their small group pass up the hill to the castle, Altaïr and Malik both are loved by Masyaf in a way she doesn't know if she'll ever understand but might one day. She'd like to. She wants to. It has to count for something.  
  
"Straight to business?" Rauf is saying when she starts listening to all of them instead of soaking in her home again.  
  
"It's been a long journey, we stink of horses and have to unpack," Altaïr replies with a glance to Malik and Maria.  
  
"And we had little time to rest leaving Jerusalem; a last minute rescue mission of a scholar. Tomorrow brother." Malik claps Rauf on the shoulder and that seems to settle it but there's not much room to argue, Maria supposes, despite any questions people must have.  
  
Abbas, fortunately, seems to have made himself scarce and so much the better, none of them would have the homecoming soured with his comments and all Maria wants is to head inside into the cool the castle proper promises, to rid herself of her armour – for good this time – so she can scrub off the smell of travel and collapse into a real bed with the two of them. Altaïr leads the way up to where they'll be staying, to what she assumes were Al Mualim's old quarters for the size of them and the view of Masyaf below when she steps out as Altaïr arranges bathwater for them, Malik dropping into a seat with a groan.  
  
"How does it feel to be back?" She asks, tearing her gaze away to watch him kick off his boots and send them halfway across the room with a raised brow.  
  
"Odd. Last time I was here, it was when Altaïr killed Al Mualim in the courtyard and I didn't know if I'd come to help him. It was…I didn't want to believe what he told me that day he spared your life and yet, it was the truth, painful as it was to stomach," he sags either from the words, the weariness, or both. Maria understands. "I had to return to Jerusalem when Altaïr went off on his voyages; we always need someone in the bureau."  
  
"Did you want to stay?"  
  
"It wasn't what I had planned for my life but…now things are different again. Better. And both of you are here and I wouldn't be parted from you when we needn't be. I've a good replacement." He pauses and smiles, undoing his knife belt to hang it over the back of the chair. "Not as good as me."  
  
"Naturally. What's his cover?"  
  
"Carpets. A modest income."  
  
"You're terrible," she tells him and tosses her gambeson at his head when she gets it off, laughing at his outraged shout from under it.   
  
"I leave you two alone for five minutes…" Altaïr sighs deeply, fingers to his brow as he shuts the door.  
  
"We could've started without you."  
  
"Maria!"  
  
Malik grins, rising from the seat to give Altaïr a shove in the direction of the bed, just about big enough for the three of them and he goes without protest, keeping his boots off the blankets, still with his weapons on and only the hood down. "Are you tired?"  
  
"Not too tired for this."  
  
"Then we should skip the bath, we've all waited long enough, haven't we?"  
  
Altaïr makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, something Maria translates to _you'll be the death of me_ and she grins, sitting opposite Malik on the bed as Altaïr kicks off his boots (later she'll bring it up with Malik that it takes one person to get Altaïr dressed but two to undress him and isn't _that_ interesting), Maria unfastening his knife belt then working on the bracers, Malik dealing with the front of his robes as Altaïr tries to hurry them along.  
  
Maria leans over him and pulls Malik into a kiss first, then him, and despite her own impatience to get back here, finds herself saying, "We've all the time in the world."  
  
Malik's laugh and Altaïr's frustrated groan are sweet music to her ears here behind a safely locked door in their home.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Be by Hozier
> 
> Anyway: I had time during lockdown to replay Assassin's Creed for the first time in seven years and I'm 100% back on my bullshit with my favourites from this entire franchise for the ancestors so sometimes you just want to write people wearing armour and bantering and wave hands at the timelines okay?


End file.
